(I apparently wrote this two years back.)
Now, when the Gregorian Year does March,
Only thrice does it lurch.
First there is the Ides,
Beware that, but not without reason.
Then there’s the tides,
that change along with the season.
Interspersed within, lies a day,
Upon which our puzzle lay.
Lunation runes are, but a grief,
So let me be brief.
It wasn’t Arlaug, it wasn’t Tvimadur,
Heck, it wasn’t even Logr,
For it was years
two four and one score,
I was born on the Merry Festival of Belgthor.